It's a Lot of Doggage

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

I greet you this Christmas Eve with a humorous glimps into my love affair with rescuing dogs because, well, DOG spelled backwards is GOD.  On this day and the next, may you have a joyous day, filled with immense love, laughter, and abundance. 

I grew up with poodles. Naturally, when I became an adult my first dog was a poodle. I had just moved to Texas and heard about a great organization called Operation Kindness. My next thought was, to dog, or not to dog. That was a really big question. The facility was nearly walking distance from my job, pushing, almost taunting me into making the doggage decision.

There I sat, nails digging into the steering wheel. I was not sure I could handle a dog of my own. I made up my mind to look - ONLY. With that decision made I felt much better about stepping through the front door. Unbeknown to me, a little honey-colored dog lay quietly with his nose pressed against the cage door.

I answered a lot of questions and filled out an application listing the preferred features in my dream dog. Then it happened. The staff walked me past the rows of cages and I came upon big brown eyes sitting upon a wet brown nose. My heart instantly melted; there sat the prettiest dog I had ever seen.

Suffice to say, I plunked down my money so fast it made the hair fly off the clerk's face. I could not wait to take this sweet, petite dog home with me. Little did I know, I was about to become completely doggie-whipped.

Dusty was the sort of dog that would tap his foot impatiently while I finished up chores. How dare I spend time with those dishes and cleaners when my sole duty in life was to pet, brush and kiss the pink, freshly manicured nails of my new master. I soon discovered there were consequences for my wander-lust heart.

I used to play the piano just for Dusty. I would sit for hours playing Chopin and Wagner. I washed him weekly and groomed him outside on the back patio. I threw his favorite squeaky toy for hours, yet looming overhead there were always those pesky chores that stole my attention. Dusty secretly devised a plan and waited for the right moment to put me in my place.

One day I came home from work to find that I had been accused, tried and found guilty. Before me was the carnage of a rampage Dusty determined I deserved. He went into the bathroom and shredded every piece of paper in the trashcan. I can only speculate that his next move was to grab the toilet paper and start running, because the freshly replaced roll was strewn about the downstairs in a well orchestrated TP event.

Mad as can be, I went searching for him. Upstairs I came upon the bedroom pillows in the hallway. I stared in disbelief. The testosterone rage must have given him super-canine strength to drag the pillows from my bedroom all the way down the hall. Ever so sweetly, he placed them upon two rather large dumps he took. I think he held it in a few days for this premeditated plan of disposal.

There was so much to take in: laundry pulled out of the hamper and strewn about, more shredded tissues from the trashcan, bedding rumpled and tossed about the bed, chewed up and spit out socks and bras. I was in complete shock. How could one 11 lb dog wreak so much havoc? Had my sweet little poodle-noodle turned into Cujo? I just had to find him.

I ran back down the stairs and walked into the living room. There he was, defiantly staring me down. Sitting triumphantly over the pièce de résistance . There lie the electric cord to my piano, gnawed in two.

The next day, I decided to show Dusty just who the alpha-dog was in that house....

I became the proud owner of a kennel.